A RECORD OF THE SUFFERINGS OF THE IMPRISONED COUNTESS LEONORA CHRISTINA. (continued 2)

The prison governor came as usual, about four o’clock, and let the women out, seating himself on the bench and placing the high stool with the candle in front of him. He had brought a book with him, and read aloud prayers for a happy end, prayers for the hour of death, and prayers for one suffering temporal punishment for his misdeeds. He did not forget a prayer for one who is to be burnt; in reading this he sighed, so religious had he grown in the short time. When he had read all the prayers, he got up and walked up and down, singing funeral hymns; when he knew no more, he began again with the first, till the women released him. Catharina complained that her son had been ill, and was greatly grieved about it. I entered into her sorrow, and said that she ought to mention her son’s illness to the Queen, and then another would probably be appointed in her place; and I begged her to compose herself, as the child would probably be better again. During the evening meal the prison governor was very merry, and related all sorts of coarse stories. When he was gone, Anna read the evening prayer. I felt very ill during this night, and often turned about in bed; there was a needle in the bed, with which I scratched myself; I got it out, and still have it.[67]

On August 14, when the prison governor opened the door early, the women told him that I had been very ill in the night. ‘Well, well,’ he answered, ‘it will soon be better.’ And when the women were ready to go to the Queen (which they were always obliged to do), Anna said to Catharina, outside the door, ‘What shall we say to the Queen?’ Catharina answered: ‘What shall we say, but that she is silent and will say nothing!’ ‘You know very well that the Queen is displeased at it.’ ‘Nevertheless, we cannot tell a lie;’ answered Catharina; ‘she says nothing at all, so it would be a sin.’[68] Catharina came back to the mid-day meal, and said that the Queen had promised to appoint another in her stead; in the afternoon, she managed secretly to say a word to me about the next chamber, which she imagined was being put in readiness for me and for no one else; she bid me good night, and promised to remember me constantly in her prayers. I thanked her for her good services, and for her kind feeling towards me.

About four o’clock the prison governor let her and Anna out. He sang one hymn after another, went to the stairs, and the time appeared long to him, till six o’clock, when Anna returned with Maren Blocks. At the evening meal the prison governor again told stories of his marriage, undoubtedly for the sake of amusing Maren. Anna left me alone, and I lay quiet in silence. Maren could not find an opportunity of speaking with me the whole evening, on account of Anna. Nothing particular happened on August 15 and 16.

When the prison governor let out Anna in the morning and afternoon, Maren Blocks remained with me, and the prison governor went his own way and locked the door, so that Maren had opportunity of talking with me alone. She told me different things; among others, that the Queen had given my clothes to the three women who had undressed me, that they might distribute them amongst themselves. She asked me whether I wished to send a message to my sister Elizabeth. I thanked her, but said that I had nothing good to tell her. I asked Maren for needles and thread, in order to test her. She replied she would gladly procure them for me if she dared, but that it would risk her whole well-being if the Queen should know it; for she had so strictly forbidden that anyone should give me either pins or needles. I inquired ‘For what reason?’ ‘For this reason,’ she replied, ‘that you may not kill yourself.’ I assured her that God had enlightened me better than that I should be my own murderer. I felt that my cross came from the hand of the Lord, that He was chastising me as His child; He would also help me to bear it; I trusted in Him to do so. ‘Then I hope, dear heart,’ said Maren, ‘that you will not kill yourself; then you shall have needles and thread; but what will you sew?’ I alleged that I wished to sew some buttons on my white night-dress, and I tore off a pair, in order to show her afterwards that I had sewn them on.

Now it happened that I had sewn up some ducats in a piece of linen round my knee; these I had kept, as I pulled off the stockings myself when they undressed me, and Anna had at my desire given me a rag, as I pretended that I had hurt my leg. I sewed this rag over the leather. They all imagined that I had some secret malady, for I lay in the linen petticoat they had given me, and went to bed in my stockings. Maren imagined that I had an issue on one leg, and she confided to me that a girl at the court, whom she mentioned by name, and who was her very good friend, had an issue of which no one knew but herself, not even the woman who made her bed. I thought to myself, you keep your friend’s secret well; I did not, however, make her any wiser, but let her believe in this case whatever she would. I was very weak on those two days, and as I took nothing more than lemon and beer, my stomach became thoroughly debilitated and refused to retain food. When Maren told the prison governor of this, he answered, ‘All right, her heart is thus getting rid of its evil.’ Anna was no longer so officious, but the prison governor was as merry as ever.

On August 17 the prison governor did not open the door before eight o’clock, and Anna asked him how it was that he had slept so long. He joked a little; presently he drew her to the door and whispered with her. He went out and in, and Anna said so loudly to Maren, that I could hear it (although she spoke as if she were whispering), ‘I am so frightened that my whole body trembles, although it does not concern me. Jesus keep me! I wish I were down below!’ Maren looked sad, but she neither answered nor spoke a word. Maren came softly up to my bed and said, ‘I am sure some one is coming to you.’ I answered, ‘Let him come, in God’s name.’ Presently I heard a running up and down stairs, and also overhead, for the Commissioners came always through the apartments, in order not to cross the square. My doors were closed again. Each time that some one ran by on the stairs, Anna shuddered and said, ‘I quite tremble.’

This traffic lasted till about eleven. When the prison governor opened the door, he said to me, ‘Leonora, you are to get up and go to the gentlemen.’ God knows that I could hardly walk, and Anna frightened me by saying to Maren, ‘Oh! the poor creature!’ Maren’s hands trembled when she put on my slippers. I could not imagine anything else than that I was to be tortured, and I consoled myself with thinking that my pain could not last long, for my body was so weary that it seemed as if God might at any moment take me away. When Maren fastened the apron over my long dress, I said: ‘They are indeed sinning heavily against me; may God give me strength.’ The prison governor hurried me, and when I was ready, he took me by the arm and led me. I would gladly have been free of his help, but I could not walk alone. He conducted me up to the next story, and there sat Count Rantzow, Skack, Retz, Gabel, and Krag, round the table.

They all rose when I entered, and I made them a reverence as well as I was able. A small low seat had been placed for me in the middle, in front of the table. The Chancellor asked me whether I had not had more letters than those taken from me in England. I answered that I had not had more; that all my letters had been then taken from me. He asked further, whether I had at that time destroyed any letters. ‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘one I tore in two, and threw it in a closet.’ ‘Why did you do so?’ enquired Count Rantzow. ‘Because’ I replied, ‘there were cyphers in it; and although they were of no importance, I feared, notwithstanding, that they might excite suspicion.’ Count Rantzow said: ‘Supposing the pieces were still forthcoming?’ ‘That were to be wished,’ I replied, ‘for then it could be seen that there was nothing suspicious in it, and it vexed me afterwards that I had torn it in two.’ Upon this the Chancellor drew forth a sheet of paper upon which, here and there, pieces of this very letter were pasted, and handed it to Krag, who gave it to me. Count Rantzow asked me if it were not my husband’s handwriting. I answered that it was. He said: ‘A part of the pieces which you tore in two have been found, and a part are lost. All that has been found has been collected and copied.’ He then asked the Chancellor for the copy, who gave it to Count Rantzow, and he handed it to me, saying, ‘See there what is wanting, and tell us what it is that is missing.’ I took it, and looked over it and said: ‘In some places, where there are not too many words missing, I think I can guess what is lost, but where a whole sentence is wanting, I cannot know.’

Most of the letter had been collected without loss of intervening pieces, and it all consisted of mirth and jest. He was telling me that he had heard from Denmark that the Electoral Prince of Saxony was to be betrothed with the Princess of Denmark;[E20] and he joked, saying that they would grease their throats and puff out their cheeks in order that with good grace and voice they might duly trumpet forth each their own titles, and more of the same kind, all in high colouring. He described the way in which Count Rantzow contrived to let people know his titles; when he had a dinner-party, there was a man employed to read aloud his titles to the guests, asking first each separately, whether he knew his titles; if there was anyone who did not know them, the secretary must forthwith come and read them aloud.

It seemed that Count Rantzow referred all this to himself, for he asked me what my husband meant by it. I replied that I did not know that he meant anything but what he had written; he meant undoubtedly those who did such things. The Chancellor averted his face from Count Rantzow, and his lips smiled a little; Gabel also did the same. Among other things there were some remarks about the Electoral Prince, that he probably cherished the hope of inheriting the Crown of Denmark; ‘mais j’espère ... cela ne se fera point.’ Count Rantzow enquired as to the words which were wanting. I said, if I remembered rightly, the words had been, ‘qu’en 300 ans.’ He enquired further as to the expressions lacking here and there, some of which I could not remember exactly, though they were of no importance. I expressed my opinion that they could easily gather what was wanting from the preceding and following words; it was sufficiently evident that all was jest, and this was apparent also to Gabel, who said, ‘Ce n’est que raillerie.’ But Count Rantzow and the General would not allow it to pass as jest.

Skack said: ‘One often means something else under the cloak of jest, and names are used when others are intended.’ For in the letter there was something said about drinking out; there was also an allusion made to the manners of the Swiss at table, and all the titles of the canton nobles were enumerated, from which Skack thought that the names of the cities might have another signification. I did not answer Skack; but as Count Rantzow continued to urge me to say what my husband had meant by it, I replied that I could not know whether he had had another meaning than that which was written. Skack shook his head and thought he had, so I said: ‘I know no country where the same customs are in vogue at meals as in Switzerland; if there are other places where the same customs prevail, he may perhaps have meant these also, for he is only speaking of drinking.’

Gabel said again, ‘It is only jest.’ The cyphers, for the sake of which I had torn the letter in two, were fortunately complete, and nothing was missing. Count Rantzow gave me a sheet of paper, to which pieces of my lord’s letter were pasted, and asked me what the cyphers meant. I replied, ‘I have not the key, and cannot solve them out of my head.’ He expressed his opinion that I could do it. I said I could not. ‘Well, they have been read,’ he said, ‘and we know what they signify.’ ‘All the better,’ I answered. Upon this, he gave me the interpretation to read, and the purport of it was that our son had written from Rome, asking for money, which was growing short, for the young nobleman was not at home. I gave the paper back to Count Rantzow without saying anything. Count Rantzow requested the Treasurer that he should read the letter, and Rantzow began again with his questions wherever anything was wanting, requesting that I should say what it was. I gave him the same answer as before; but when in one passage, where some words were missing, he pressed me hard to say them, and it was evident from the context that they were ironical (since an ironical word was left written), I said: ‘You can add as much of the same kind as pleases you, if one is not enough; I do not know them.’ Gabel again said, ‘Ce n’est que raillerie.’[E21]

No further questions were then made respecting the letters; but Count Rantzow enquired as to my jewels, and asked where the large diamond was which my husband had received in France.[E22] I replied that it had long been sold. He further asked where my large drop pearls where, which I had worn as a feather on my hat, and where my large pearl head-ornament was. ‘All these,’ I replied, ‘have long been sold.’ He asked further whether I had then no more jewels. I answered, ‘I have none now.’ ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘elsewhere.’ I replied, ‘I left some behind.’ ‘Where, then?’ he asked. ‘At Bruges,’ I replied. Then he said: ‘I have now somewhat to ask you, madame, that concerns myself. Did you visit my sister in Paris the last time you were there?’ I replied, ‘Yes.’ He asked whether I had been with her in the convent, and what was the name of the convent. I informed him that I had been in the convent, and that it was the Convent des Filles Bleues. At this he nodded, as if to confirm it. He also wished to know whether I had seen her. I said that no one in the convent might be seen by anyone but parents; even brothers and sisters were not allowed to see them.[E23] ‘That is true,’ he said, and then rose and gave me his hand. I begged him to induce his gracious Majesty to have pity on me, but he made no answer. When the Treasurer Gabel gave me his hand, I begged the same favour of him. He replied, ‘Yes, if you will confess,’ and went out without waiting for a reply.

For more than three hours they had kept up the interrogation. Then the prison governor came in and said to me: ‘Now you are to remain in here; it is a beautiful chamber, and has been freshly whitewashed; you may now be contented.’ Anna and Maren also came in. God knows, I was full of care, tired and weary, and had insufferable headache; yet, before I could go to rest, I had to sit waiting until the bedstead had been taken out of the ‘Dark Church’ and brought hither. Anna occupied herself meanwhile in the Dark Church, in scraping out every hole; she imagined she might find something there, but in vain. The woman who was to remain with me alone then came in. Her pay was two rix-dollars a week; her name is Karen, the daughter of Ole. After the prison governor had supped with the woman and Maren, Anna and Maren Blocks bade me good night; the latter exhibited great affection. The prison governor bolted two doors before my innermost prison. In the innermost door there is a square hole, which is secured with iron cross-bars. The prison governor was going to attach a lock to this hole, but he forebore at Karen’s request, for she said she could not breathe if this hole were closed. He then affixed locks to the door of the outer chamber, and to the door leading to the stairs; he had, therefore, four locks and doors twice a day to lock and unlock.

I will here describe my prison. It is a chamber, seven of my paces long and six wide; there are in it two beds, a table, and two stools. It was freshly whitewashed, which caused a terrible smell; the floor, moreover was so thick with dirt, that I imagined it was of loam, though it was really laid with bricks. It is eighteen feet high, with a vaulted ceiling, and very high up is a window which is two feet square. In front of it are double thick iron bars, besides a wire-work, which is so close that one could not put one’s little finger into the holes. This wire-work had been thus ordered with great care by Count Rantzow (so the prison governor afterwards told me), so that no pigeons might bring in a letter—a fact which he had probably read in a novel as having happened. I was weak and deeply grieved in my heart; I looked for a merciful deliverance, and an end to my sorrow, and I sat silent and uncomplaining, answering little when the woman spoke to me. Sometimes in my reverie I scratched at the wall, which made the woman imagine that I was confused in my head; she told this to the prison governor, who reported it to the Queen, and during every meal-time, when the door was open, she never failed to send messengers to enquire how it fared with me, what I said, and what I was doing.

The woman had, however, not much to tell in obedience to the oath she, according to her own statement, had taken in the presence of the prison governor. But afterwards she found some means to ingratiate herself. And as my strength daily decreased, I rejoiced at the prospect of my end, and on August 21 I sent for the prison governor, and requested him to apply for a clergyman who could give me the sacrament. This was immediately granted, and His Majesty’s Court preacher, Magister Mathias Foss, received orders to perform for me the duties of his office, and exhorted me, both on behalf of his office and in consequence of the command he had received, not to burden my conscience; I might rest assured, he said, that in this world I should never see my husband again, and he begged me to say what I knew of the treason. I could scarcely utter a word for weeping; but I said that I could attest before God in heaven, from whom nothing is hidden, that I knew nothing of this treason. I knew well I should never see my husband again in this life; I commended him to the Almighty, who knew my innocence; I prayed God only for a blessed end and departure from this evil world; I desired nothing from the clergyman but that he should remember me in his prayers, that God might by death put an end to my affliction. The clergyman promised faithfully to grant my request. It has not pleased God to hear me in this: He has willed to prove my faith still further, by sending to me since this time much care, affliction, and adversity. He has helped me also to bear the cross, and has Himself supported its heaviest end; His name be praised for ever. When I had received the Lord’s Supper, M. Foss comforted me and bid me farewell.

I lay silently for three days after this, taking little or nothing. The prison governor often enquired whether I wished for anything to eat or drink, or whether he should say anything to the King. I thanked him, but said I required nothing.

On August 25 the prison governor importuned me at once with his conversation, expressing his belief that I entertained an evil opinion of the Queen. He inferred it from this: the day before he had said to me that His Majesty had ordered that whatever I desired from the kitchen and cellar should be at once brought to me, to which I had answered, ‘God preserve His Majesty; he is a good sovereign; may he show clemency to evil men!’ He had then said, ‘The Queen is also good,’ to which I had made no answer. He had then tried to turn the conversation to the Queen, and to hear if he could not draw out a word from me; he had said: ‘The Queen is sorry for you that you have been so led away. It grieves her that you have willed your own unhappiness; she is not angry; she pities you.’ And when I made no answer, he repeated it again, saying from time to time, ‘Yes, yes, my dear lady, it is as I say.’ I was annoyed at the talk, and said, ‘Dieu vous punisse!’ ‘Ho, ho!’ he said, misinterpreting my words, and calling Karen, he went out and closed the doors. Thus unexpectedly I got rid of him. It was ridiculous that the woman now wanted to oblige me to attend to what the prison governor had said. I begged her to remember that she was now not attending on a child (she had before been nurse to children). She could not so easily depart from her habit, and for a long time treated me as a child, until at length I made her comprehend that this was not required.

When I perceived that my stomach desired food and could retain it, I became impatient that I could not die, but must go on living in such misery. I began to dispute with God, and wanted to justify myself with Him. It seemed to me that I had not deserved such misfortune. I imagined myself far purer than David was from great sins, and yet he could say, ‘Verily I have cleansed my heart in vain, and washed my hands in innocency. For all the day long have I been plagued, and chastened every morning.’ I thought I had not deserved so exceedingly great a chastisement as that which I was receiving. I said with Job, ‘Show me wherefore thou contendest with me. Is it good unto thee that thou shouldest oppress, that thou shouldest despise the work of thine hands?’ I repeated all Job’s expressions when he tried to justify himself, and it seemed to me that I could justly apply them to myself. I cursed with him and Jeremiah the day of my birth, and was very impatient; keeping it, however, to myself, and not expressing it aloud. If at times a word escaped me, it was in German (since I had generally read the Bible in German), and therefore the woman did not understand what I was saying. I was very restless from coughing, and turned from side to side on the bed. The woman often asked me how I was. I begged her to leave me quiet and not to speak to me. I was never more comfortable than in the night when I observed that she was sleeping; then, unhindered, I could let my tears flow and give free vent to my thoughts. Then I called God to account. I enumerated everything that I had innocently suffered and endured during my life, and I enquired of God whether I had deviated from my duty? Whether I ought to have done less for my husband than I had done? Whether the present was my recompense for not having left him in his adversity? Whether I was to be now tortured, tormented, and scorned for this? Whether all the indescribable misfortunes which I had endured with him were not enough, that I had been reserved for this irremediable and great trouble? I do not wish to conceal my unreasonableness. I will confess my sins. I asked if still worse misfortunes were in store for me for which I was to live? Whether there was any affliction on earth to be compared to mine? I prayed God to put an end to my sufferings, for it redounded in no wise to his honour to let me live and be so tormented. I was after all not made of steel and iron, but of flesh and blood. I prayed that He would suggest to me, or inform me in a dream, what I was to do to shorten my misery.

When I had long thus disputed and racked my brains, and had also wept so bitterly that it seemed as if no more tears remained, I fell asleep, but awoke with terror, for I had horrible fancies in my dreams, so that I feared to sleep, and began again to bewail my misery. At length God looked down upon me with his eye of mercy, so that on August 31 I had a night of quiet sleep, and just as day was dawning I awoke with the following words on my lips: ‘My son, faint not when thou art rebuked of the Lord; for whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.’ I uttered the last words aloud, thinking that the woman was sleeping; possibly she awoke at the moment, and she asked me whether I wished for anything. I answered ‘No.’ ‘You were speaking,’ she said, ‘and you mentioned your stockings; I could not understand the rest.’ I replied, ‘It must have been then in my sleep. I wish for nothing.’

I then lay quietly thinking. I perceived and confessed my folly, that I, who am only dust and ashes, and decay, and am only fit for the dunghill, should call God to account, should dispute with my Creator and his decrees, and should wish to censure and question them. I began to weep violently, and I prayed fervently and from my heart for mercy and forgiveness. While I had before boasted with David, and been proud of my innocence, now I confessed with him that before God there is none that doeth good; no, not one. While before I had spoken foolishly with Job, I now said with him that I had ‘uttered that I understood not; things too wonderful for me which I knew not.’ I besought God to have mercy on me, relying on his great compassion. I cited Moses, Joshua, David, Jeremiah, Job, Jonah, and others, all highly endowed men, and yet so weak that in the time of calamity they grumbled and murmured against God. I prayed that He would in his mercy forgive me, the frailest of earthen vessels, as I could not after all be otherwise than as He had created me. All things were in his power; it was easy to Him to give me patience, as He had before imparted to me power and courage to endure hard blows and shocks. And I prayed God (after asking forgiveness of my sins) for nothing else than good patience to await the period of my deliverance. God graciously heard me. He pardoned not only my foolish sins, but He gave me that also for which I had not prayed, for day by day my patience increased. While I had often said with David, ‘Will the Lord cast off for ever? and will he be favourable no more? Is his mercy clean gone for ever? doth his promise fail for evermore? Hath God forgotten to be gracious? Hath He in anger shut up his tender mercies?’ I now continued with him, ‘This is my infirmity, but I will remember the years of the right hand of the Most High.’ I said also with Psalm cxix.: ‘It is good for me that I have been afflicted; that I might learn thy statutes.’

The power of God was working within me. Many consolatory sentences from the Holy Scriptures came into my mind; especially these:—‘If so be that we suffer with Christ, that we may be also glorified together.’ Also: ‘We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.’ Also: ‘My grace is sufficient for thee, for my strength is made perfect in weakness.’ I thought especially often of Christ’s words in St. Luke, ‘Shall not God avenge his own elect, which cry day and night unto him, though he bear long with them? I tell you that he will avenge them speedily.’ I felt in my trouble how useful it is to have learned psalms and passages from the Bible in youth. Believe me, my children, that it has been a great consolation to me in my misery. Therefore, cultivate now in your youth what your parents taught you in childhood; now, while trouble visits you less severely, so that when it comes, you may be ready to receive it and to comfort yourselves with the Word of God.

I began by degrees to feel more at peace, and to speak with the woman, and to answer the prison governor when he addressed me. The woman told me sundry things, and said that the prison governor had ordered her to tell him everything that I spoke or did, but that she was too wise to do such a thing; that she understood now better than she had done at first how to behave. He went out, but she remained shut up with me, and she would be true to me. And as it appeared that I did not at once believe what she said, she swore it solemnly, and prayed God to punish her if ever she acted falsely towards me. She stroked and patted my hand, and laid it against her cheek, and begged that I would believe her, using the words, ‘My dearest lady, you can believe me; as truly as I am a child of God, I will never deceive you! Now, is not that enough?’ I answered, ‘I will believe you;’ thinking at the same time that I would do and say nothing but what she might divulge. She was very glad that she had induced me to speak, and said, ‘When you lay so long silent, and I had no one with whom I could speak, I was sad, and determined that I would not long lead this life, even if they gave me double as much, for I should have become crazed. I was afraid for you, but still more for myself, that my head would give way.’

She went on talking in this way, introducing also various merry stories. When she was young she had been in the service of a clergyman, who encouraged his domestics in the fear of God, and there she had learned prayers and sentences from the Bible by heart; she knew also the Children’s Primer, with the explanatory remarks, and sang tolerably well. She knew in some measure how she should walk before God and behave towards her neighbour; but she acted contrary to her knowledge—for she had a malicious temper. She was an elderly woman, but she liked to reckon herself as middle-aged. It appeared that in her youth she had been pretty and rather dissolute, since even now she could not lay aside her levity, but joked with the tower-warder, and the prison governor’s coachman, a man of the name of Peder, and with a prisoner named Christian (more will presently be said with regard to this prisoner; he was free to go about the tower).[69]

Maren Blocks often sent me a message through this coachman, besides various kinds of candied sugar and citron, letting me know from time to time whether anything new was occurring. All this had to be done through the woman. One day she came in when the doors were closed, and brought me a message from Maren Blocks, saying, ‘My lady, if you will now write to your children in Skaane, there is a safe opportunity for you to do so.’ I answered, ‘My children are not in Skaane, yet if I can send a message to Skaane, I have a friend there who will probably let me know how it fares with my children.’ She gave me a piece of crumpled paper and a pencil. I wrote a few words to F. Margrete Rantzow,[E24] saying that she probably knew of my miserable condition, but supposing that her friendship was not lessened by it, and begging her to let me know how my children were, and from what cause they had come to Skaane, as I had been informed was the case, though I did not believe it. This was what I wrote and gave to the woman. I heard nothing further of it, and I imagine that she had been ordered to find out to whom I wrote, &c. (They have been busy with the idea that some of you, my dear children, might come to Skaane.) I sewed up the letter or slip of paper in such a manner that it could not be opened without making it apparent. I asked the woman several times if she knew whether the letter had been sent away. She always answered that she did not know, and that with a morose expression, and at last she said (when I once more asked her to enquire of Peder), ‘I suppose that the person who ought to have it has got it.’ This answer made me reflect, and since then I asked no further.

I remained all this time in bed, partly because I had nothing with which to beguile the time, and partly because of the cold, for no stove was placed in my prison till after the New Year. Occasionally I requested the woman to manage, through Peder, that I should have a little silk or thread, that I might beguile the time by embroidering a piece of cloth that I had; but the answer I received was that he dared not. A long time afterwards it came to my knowledge that she had never asked Peder for it. There was trouble enough, however, to occupy my thoughts without my needing to employ the time in handiwork.

It was on September 2 that I heard some one moving early overhead, so I asked the woman if she knew whether there was a chamber there (for the woman went up every Saturday with the night-stool). She answered that there was a prison there like this, and outside was the rack (which is also the case). She observed that I showed signs of fear, and she said, ‘God help! Whoever it is that is up there is most assuredly to be tortured.’ I said, ‘Ask Peder, when the doors are unlocked, whether there is a prisoner there.’ She said she would do so, and meanwhile she kept asking herself and me who it might be. I could not guess; still less did I venture to confess my fear to her, which she nevertheless perceived, and therefore increased; for after she had spoken with Peder, about noon,[70] and the doors were locked, she said, ‘God knows who it is that is imprisoned there! Peder would tell me nothing.’ She said the same at the evening meal, but added that she had asked him, and that he would give no answer. I calmed myself, as I heard no more footsteps above, and I said, ‘There is no prisoner up there.’[71] ‘How do you know that?’ she asked. ‘I gather it from the fact,’ I said, ‘that since this morning I have heard no one above; I think if there were anyone there, they would probably give him something to eat.’ She was not pleased that my mind was quieted, and therefore she and Peder together endeavoured to trouble me.

On the following day, when the doors were being locked after the mid-day dinner (which was generally Peder’s task), and he was pulling to my innermost door, which opens inside, he put in his head and said, ‘Casset!’ She was standing beside the door, and appeared as if she had not rightly understood him, saying, ‘Peder spoke of some one who is in prison, but I could not understand who it is.’ I understood him at once, but also behaved as if I had not. No one knows but God what a day and night I had. I turned it over in my mind. It often seemed to me that it might be that they had seized him, although Cassetta was a subject of the King of Spain; for if treason is suspected, there is no thought given as to whose subject the man suspected may be. I lay in the night secretly weeping and lamenting that the brave man should have come into trouble for my sake, because he had executed my lord’s will, and had followed me to England, where we parted, I should say, when Petcon and his company separated us and carried me away.

I lay without sleep till towards day, then I fell into a dream which frightened me. I suppose my thoughts caused it. It came before me that Cassetta was being tortured in the manner he had once described to me that a Spaniard had been tortured: four cords were fastened round his hands and feet, and each cord was made secure in a corner of the room, and a man sometimes pulled one cord and sometimes another; and since it seemed to me that Cassetta never screamed, I supposed that he was dead, and I shrieked aloud and awoke. The woman, who had long been awake, said: ‘O God! dear lady, what ails you? Are you ill? You have been groaning a long time, and now you screamed loudly.’ I replied, ‘It was in my dream; nothing ails me.’ She said further, ‘Then you have had a bad dream?’ ‘That may well be,’ I answered. ‘Oh, tell me what you have dreamt; I can interpret dreams.’ I replied, ‘When I screamed I forgot my dream, otherwise no one can interpret dreams better than I.’ I thank God I do not regard dreams; and this dream had no other cause than what I have said. When the door was locked after the mid-day meal, the woman said of herself (for I asked no further respecting the prisoners), ‘There is no one imprisoned there; shame on Peder for his nonsense!’ I asked him who was imprisoned there, and he laughed at me heartily. ‘There is no one there, so let your mind be at peace.’ I said, ‘If my misfortunes were to involve others, it would be very painful to me.’

Thus matters went on till the middle of September, and then two of our servants were brought as prisoners and placed in arrest; one Nils Kaiberg, who had acted as butler, and the other Frans, who had been in our service as a lacquey. After having been kept in prison for a few weeks and examined they were set at liberty. At the same time two Frenchmen were brought as prisoners: an old man named La Rosche, and a young man whose name I do not know. La Rosche was brought to the tower and was placed in the witch-cell; a feather-bed had been thrown down, and on this he lay; for some months he was never out of his clothes. His food consisted of bread and wine; he refused everything else. He was accused of having corresponded with Corfitz, and of having promised the King of France that he would deliver Crooneborg into his hands.[72] This information had been given by Hannibal Sehested, who was at that time in France, and he had it from a courtesan who was then intimate with Hannibal, but had formerly been in connection with La Rosche, and probably afterwards had quarrelled with him. There was no other proof in favour of the accusation. Probably suspicion had been raised by the fact that this La Rosche, with the other young man, had desired to see me when I was in arrest in Dover, which had been permitted, and they had paid me their respects. It is possible that he had wished to speak with me and to tell me what he had heard in London, and which, it seemed to him, excited no fears in me. But as I was playing at cards with some ladies who had come to look at me, he could not speak with me; so he asked me whether I had the book of plays which the Countess of Pembroke had published.[E25] I replied, ‘No’. He promised to send it me, and as I did not receive it, I think he had written in it some warning to me, which Braten afterwards turned to his advantage.

However all this may be, La Rosche suffered innocently, and could prove upon oath that he had never spoken with my lord in his life, and still less had corresponded with him.[73] In short, after some months of innocent suffering, he was set at liberty and sent back to France. The other young man was confined in an apartment near the servants’ hall. He had only been apprehended as a companion to the other, but no further accusation was brought against him.[E26] At first, when these men were imprisoned, there was a whispering and talking between the prison governor and the woman, and also between Peder and her; the prison governor moreover himself locked my door. I plainly perceived that there was something in the wind, but I made no enquiries. Peder at length informed the woman that they were two Frenchmen, and he said something about the affair, but not as it really was. Shortly before they were set at liberty the prison governor said, ‘I have two parle mi franço in prison; what they have done I know not.’ I made no further enquiries, but he jested and said, ‘Now I can learn French.’ ‘That will take time,’ said I.

In the same month of September died Count Rantzow. He did not live to see the execution of an effigy, which he so confidently had hoped for, being himself the one who first had introduced this kind of mockery in these countries.[E27]

On October 9 our Princess Anna Sophia was betrothed to the Electoral Prince of Saxony. On the morning of the day on which the festivities were to take place I said to the woman, ‘To-day we shall fast till evening.’ For I thought they would not think of me, and that I should not receive any of the remains until the others had been treated, at any rate, to dinner. She wished to know the reason why we were to fast. I answered, ‘You shall know it this evening.’ I lay and thought of the change of fortune: that I, who twenty-eight years ago had enjoyed as great state as the Princess, should now be lying a captive, close by the very wall where my bridal chamber had been; thank God, that it afflicted me but little. Towards noonday, when the trumpets and kettledrums were sounding, I said, ‘Now they are conducting the bride across the square to the great hall.’ ‘How do you know that?’ said the woman. ‘I know it,’ I said; ‘my spirit tells me so.’ ‘What sort of spirit is that?’ she asked. ‘That I cannot tell you,’ I replied. And as the trumpets blew every time that a new course of dishes and sweets were produced, I mentioned it; and before they were served the kettledrums were sounded. And as they were served on the square in front of the kitchen, I said each time, ‘We shall have no dinner yet.’ When it was nearly three o’clock, the woman said, ‘My stomach is quite shrunk up; when shall we have dinner?’ I answered, ‘Not for a long time yet; the second course is only now on the table; we shall have something at about seven o’clock, and not before.’ It was as I said. About half-past seven the prison governor came and excused himself, saying that he had asked for the dinner, but that all hands in the kitchen were occupied. The woman, who had always entertained the idea that I was a witch, was now confirmed in her opinion.[74]

On the following day knights were dubbed, and each time when the trumpets blew I did not only say, ‘Now they have made a knight’ (for I could hear the herald calling from the window, though I could not understand what he said), but even who had been made a knight; for this I guessed, knowing who were in the Council who were not knights before; and because it was as I said, the woman believed for certain that I was an enchantress. I perceived this, as she put questions to me concerning things which I could not know, and to which I often gave equivocal answers. I thought perhaps that the fear she had that I could know what would happen might hinder her from entangling me with lies. Since then she whispered much less with the prison governor. She told of a person whom she regarded as a witch, whose power, however, consisted in nothing else than in the science of curing French pox, and causing the miscarriage of bad women, and other improprieties. She had had much intercourse with this woman.

Some time after the departure of the Electoral Prince it was determined that a wooden effigy should be subjected to capital punishment, and on the forenoon my chamber was opened, swept, cleaned, and strewed with sand.[75] When it was opened, towards noon, and the woman had been on the stairs, talking with the coachman, she came in, and walking up to my bed, stood as if startled, and said hurriedly, ‘Oh, Jesus! Lady, they are bringing your husband!’ The news terrified me, which she observed; for as she uttered it, I raised myself in the bed and stretched out my right arm, and was not able to draw it back again at once. Perhaps this vexed her, for I remained sitting in this way and not speaking a word; so she said, ‘My dearest lady, it is your husband’s effigy.’ To this I said, ‘May God punish you!’ She then gave full vent to her evil tongue, and expressed her opinion that I deserved punishment, and not she, and used many unprofitable words. I was quite silent, for I was very weak, and scarcely knew where I was. In the afternoon I heard a great murmuring of people in the inner palace square, and I saw the effigy brought across the street by the executioner on a wheelbarrow, and placed in the tower below my prison.

The next morning, at about nine o’clock, the effigy was wofully treated by the executioner, but no sound came from it. At the mid-day meal the prison governor told the woman how the executioner had cut off its head, and had divided the body into four quarters, which were then placed on four wheels, and attached to the gallows, while the head was exhibited on the town hall. The prison governor stood in the outer chamber, but he narrated all this in a loud tone, so that I might hear it, and repeated it three times.[E28] I lay and thought what I should do; I could not show that I made but little of it, for then something else perhaps would be devised to trouble me, and in the hurry I could think of nothing else than saying to the woman with sadness, ‘Oh, what a shame! speak to the prison governor and tell him to beg the King to allow the effigy to be taken down and not to remain as it is!’ The woman went out, and spoke softly with the prison governor; but he answered aloud and said, ‘Yes, indeed, taken down! There will be more put up; yes, more up;’ and kept on repeating these words a good while.

I lay silently thinking; I said nothing, but indulged in my own reflections. Sometimes I consoled myself, and hoped that this treatment of the effigy was a token that they could not get the man; then again fear asserted its sway. I did not care for the dishonour, for there are too many instances of great men in France whose effigies have been burnt by the executioner, and who subsequently arrived again at great honour.

When the door was unlocked again for the evening meal, there was a whispering between the prison governor and the woman. A lacquey was also sent, who stood outside the outer door and called the prison governor to him (my bed stands just opposite the doors, and thus when all three doors are opened I can see the staircase door, which is the fourth). I do not know what the woman can have told the prison governor, for I had not spoken all day, except to ask her to give me what I required; I said, moreover, nothing more than this for several days, so that the prison governor grew weary of enquiring longer of the woman; for she had nothing to communicate to him respecting me, and she tormented him always with her desire to get away; she could not longer spend her life in this way.

But as she received no other consolation from him than that he swore to her that she would never get away as long as she lived, for some days she did nothing else than weep; and since I would not ask her why she wept, she came one day up to my bedside crying, and said, ‘I am a miserable being!’ I asked her why? what ailed her? ‘I ail enough,’ she answered; ‘I have been so stupid, and have allowed myself to be shut up here for the sake of money, and now you are cross with me and will not speak with me.’ I said, ‘What am I to say? you wish perhaps to have something to communicate to the prison governor?’ Upon this she began to call down curses on herself if she had ever repeated to the prison governor a word that I had said or done; she wished I could believe her and speak with her; why should she be untrue to me? we must at any rate remain together as long as we lived. She added many implorations as to my not being angry; I had indeed cause to be so; she would in future give me no cause for anger, for she would be true to me. I thought, ‘You shall know no more than is necessary.’

I let her go on talking and relating the whole history of her life—such events as occur among peasants. She had twice married cottagers, and after her last widowhood she had been employed as nurse to the wife of Holger Wind, so that she had no lack of stories. By her first husband she had had a child, who had never reached maturity, and her own words led me to have a suspicion that she had herself helped to shorten the child’s days; for once when she was speaking of widows marrying again, she said among other things, ‘Those who wish to marry a second time ought not to have children, for in that case the husband is never one with the wife.’ I had much to say against this, and I asked her what a woman was to do who had a child by her first husband. She answered quickly, ‘Put a pillow on its head.’ This I could only regard as a great sin, and I explained it to her. ‘What sin could there be,’ she said, ‘when the child was always sickly, and the husband angry in consequence?’ I answered as I ought, and she seemed ill at ease. Such conversation as this gave me no good reason to believe in the fidelity which she had promised me.

The woman then took a different tack, and brought me word from the coachman of all that was occurring. Maren Blocks sent me a prayer-book through her, and that secretly, for I was allowed no book of any kind, nor any needles and pins; respecting these the woman had by the Queen’s order taken an oath to the prison governor. Thus the year passed away. On New Year’s day, 1664, the woman wished me a happy year. I thanked her, and said, ‘That is in God’s hands.’ ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘if He wills it.’ ‘And if He does not will it,’ I answered, ‘it will not be, and then He will give me patience to bear my heavy cross.’ ‘It is heavy,’ she said, ‘even to me; what must it not be to you? May it only remain as it is, and not be worse with you!’ It seemed to me as if it could not be worse, but better; for death, in whatever form, would put an end to my misery. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘is it not all one how one dies?’ ‘That is true,’ I answered; ‘one dies in despair, another with free courage.’ The prison governor did not say a word to me that day. The woman had a long talk with the coachman; she no doubt related to him our conversation.

In the month of March the prison governor came in and assumed a particularly gentle manner, and said, among other things, ‘Now you are a widow; now you can tell the state of all affairs.’ I answered him with a question, ‘Can widows tell the state of all affairs?’ He laughed and said, ‘I do not mean that; I mean this treason!’ I answered, ‘You can ask others about it who know of it; I know of no treason.’ And as it seemed to him that I did not believe that my husband was dead,[E29] he took out a newspaper and let me read it, perhaps chiefly because my husband was badly treated in it. I did not say much about it—nothing more than, ‘Writers of newspapers do not always speak the truth.’ This he might take as he liked.

I lay there silently hoping that it might be so, that my husband had by death escaped his enemies; and I thought with the greatest astonishment that I should have lived to see the day when I should wish my lord dead; then sorrowful thoughts took possession of me, and I did not care to talk. The woman imagined that I was sad because my lord was dead, and she comforted me, and that in a reasonable manner; but the remembrance of past times was only strengthened by her consolatory remarks, and for a long time my mind could not again regain repose. Your condition, my dearest children, troubled me. You had lost your father, and with him property and counsel. I am captive and miserable, and cannot help you, either with counsel or deed; you are fugitives and in a foreign land. For my three eldest sons I am less anxious than for my daughters and my youngest son.[E30] I sat up whole nights in my bed, for I could not sleep, and when I have headache I cannot lay my head on the pillow. From my heart I prayed to God for a gracious deliverance. It has not pleased God to grant this, but He gave me patience to bear my heavy cross.

My cross was so much heavier to me at first, as it was strictly forbidden to give me either knife, scissors, thread, or anything that might have beguiled the time to me. Afterwards, when my mind became a little calmer, I began to think of something wherewith to occupy myself; and as I had a needle, as I have before mentioned, I took off the ribands of my night-dress, which were broad flesh-coloured taffeta. With the silk I embroidered the piece of cloth that I had with different flowers worked in small stitches. When this was finished, I drew threads out of my sheet, twisted them, and sewed with them. When this was nearly done, the woman said one day, ‘What will you do now when this is finished?’ I answered, ‘Oh, I shall get something to do; if it is brought to me by the ravens, I shall have it.’ Then she asked me if I could do anything with a broken wooden spoon. I answered, ‘Perhaps you know of one?’ After having laughed a while, she drew one forth, the bowl of which was half broken off. ‘I could indeed make something with that,’ I said, ‘if I had only a tool for the purpose. Could you persuade the prison governor or Peder the coachman to lend me a knife?’ ‘I will beg for one,’ she answered, ‘but I know well that they will not.’ That she said something about it to the prison governor I could perceive from his answer, for he replied aloud, ‘She wants no knife; I will cut her food for her. She might easily injure herself with one.’[76]

What she said to the coachman I know not (this I know, that she did not desire me to obtain a knife, for she was afraid of me, as I afterwards discovered). The woman brought the answer from the coachman that he dared not for his life. I said, ‘If I can but have a piece of glass, I will see what I can make that is useful with the piece of spoon.’ I begged her to look in a corner in the outermost room, where all rubbish was thrown; this she did, and found not only glass, but even a piece of a pewter cover which had belonged to a jug. By means of the glass I formed the spoon handle into a pin with two prongs, on which I made riband, which I still have in use (the silk for this riband I took from the border of my night-dress). I bent the piece of pewter in such a manner that it afterwards served me as an inkstand. It also is still in my keeping. As a mark of fidelity, the woman brought me at the same time a large pin, which was a good tool for beginning the division between the prongs, which I afterwards scraped with glass.

She asked me whether I could think of anything to play with, as the time was so long to her. I said, ‘Coax Peder, and he will bring you a little flax for money and a distaff.’ ‘What!’ she answered, ‘shall I spin? The devil may spin! For whom should I spin?’ I said, ‘To beguile the time, I would spin, if I only had what is necessary for it.’ ‘That you may not have, dear lady,’ said she; ‘I have done the very utmost for you in giving you what I have done.’ ‘If you wish something to play with,’ said I, ‘get some nuts, and we will play with them.’ She did so, and we played with them like little children. I took three of the nuts, and made them into dice, placing two kinds of numbers on each, and we played with these also. And that we might know the ⊙ which I made with the large pin,[77] I begged her to procure for me a piece of chalk, which she did, and I rubbed chalk into it. These dice were lost, I know not how; my opinion is that the coachman got possession of them, perhaps at the time that he cheated the woman out of the candles and sugar left. For he came to her one day at noon quite out of breath, and said she was to give him the candles and the sugar which he had brought her from Maren Blocks, and whatever there was that was not to be seen, as our quarters were to be searched. She ran out with the things under her apron, and never said anything to me about it until the door was locked. I concealed on myself, as well as I was able, my pin, my silk, and the pieces of sewing with the needle and pin. Nothing came of the search, and it was only a ruse of the coachman, in order to get the candles that were left, for which she often afterwards abused him, and also for the sugar.

I was always at work, so long as I had silk from my night-dress and stockings, and I netted on the large pin, so that it might last a long time. I have still some of the work in my possession, as well as the bobbins, which I made out of wooden pegs. By means of bags filled with sand I made cords which I formed into a bandage (which is worn out), for I was not allowed a corset, often as I begged for one; the reason why is unknown to me. I often beguiled the time with the piece of chalk, painting with it on a piece of board and on the table, wiping it away again, and making rhymes and composing hymns. The first of these, however, I composed before I had the chalk. I never sang it, but repeated it to myself.

A morning hymn, to the tune, ‘Ieg wil din Priiss ud Synge’[E31]:—

I composed the following hymn in German and often sang it, as they did not understand German; a hymn, somewhat to the air of ‘Was ist doch auff dieser Welt, das nicht fehlt?’ &c.:—

Thus I peacefully beguiled the time, until Doctor Otto Sperling[E32] was brought to the tower; his prison is below the ‘dark church.’ His fate is pitiable. When he was brought to the tower his feet and hands were chained in irons. The prison governor, who had formerly not been friendly with him, rejoiced heartily at the doctor’s misfortune, and that he had fallen into his hands, so that the whole evening he did nothing but sing and hum. He said to the woman, ‘My Karen, will you dance? I will sing.’ He left the doctor to pass the night in his irons. We could hear that a prisoner had been brought in from the murmuring, and the concourse of people, as well as from the locking of the prison, which was below mine (where iron bolts were placed against the door).[78] The joy exhibited by the prison governor excited my fear, also that he not only himself opened and shut my door, but that he prevented the woman from going out on the stairs, by leaning against the outermost door of my prison. The coachman stood behind the prison governor making signs; but as the prison governor turned from side to side, I could not rightly see him.

On the following day, at about eight o’clock, I heard the iron bolts drawn and the door below opened; I could also hear that the inner prison was opened (the doctor was then taken out for examination). The woman said, ‘There is certainly a prisoner there; who can it be?’ I said: ‘It seems indeed that a prisoner has been brought in, for the prison governor is so merry. You will find it out from Peder; if not to-day, another time. I pity the poor man, whoever he may be.’ (God knows my heart was not as courageous as I appeared.) When my door was opened at noon (which was after twelve o’clock, for they did not open my door till the doctor had been conveyed to his cell again), the prison governor was still merrier than usual, and danced about and sang, ‘Cheer up! courage! It will come to pass!’

When he had cut up the dinner, he leaned against the outer door of my prison and prevented the woman from going out, saying to me, ‘I am to salute you from the Major-General von Alfeldt; he says all will now soon be well, and you may console yourself. Yes, yes, all will now soon be well!’ I behaved as if I received his words in their apparent meaning, and I begged him to thank the Major-General for his consolation; and then he repeated the same words, and added, ‘Yes, indeed! he said so.’ I replied with a question: ‘What may it arise from that the Major-General endeavours to cheer me? May God cheer him in return! I never knew him before.’ To this the prison governor made no answer at all. While the prison governor was talking with me, the coachman was standing behind him, and showed by gestures how the prisoner had been bound hand and foot, that he had a beard and a calotte on his head, and a handkerchief round his neck. This could not make me wiser than I was, but it could indeed grieve me still more. At the evening meal the woman was again prevented speaking with the coachman, and the coachman again made the same signs, for the prison governor was standing in his usual place; but he said nothing, nor did I.[79] On the following morning the Doctor was again brought up for examination, and the prison governor behaved as before. As he stood there ruminating, I asked him who the prisoner below was. He answered that there was no one below. I let the matter rest for the time, and as we proceeded to speak of other things, the woman slipped out to Peder, who told her quickly who it was. Some days went by in the same manner. When sentence had been pronounced on the Doctor, and his execution was being postponed,[80] and I said nothing to the prison governor but when he accosted me, he came in and said: ‘I see that you can judge that there is a prisoner below. It is true, but I am forbidden to tell you who it is!’ I answered: ‘Then I do not desire to know.’ He began to feel some compassion, and said: ‘Don’t fret, my dear lady; it is not your husband, nor your son, nor daughter, nor brother-in-law, nor any relative; it is a bird which ought to sing,[81] and will not, but he must, he must!’ I said: ‘I ought to be able to guess from your words who it is. If the bird can sing what can ring in their ears, he will probably do so; but he cannot sing a melody which he does not know!’ Upon this he was silent, and turned away and went out.

By degrees all became quiet with regard to the Doctor, and no more was said about the matter, and the prison governor came in from time to time when the door was opened, and often made himself merry with the woman, desiring her to make a curtsey to him, and showing her how she should place her feet and carry her body, after the fashion of a dancing-master. He related also different things that had occurred in former times, some of them evidently intended to sadden me with the recollection of my former prosperity: all that had happened at my wedding, how the deceased King had loved me. He gave long accounts of this, not forgetting how I was dressed, and all this he said for the benefit of no one else but myself, for the woman meanwhile stood on the stairs talking with the tower warder, the coachman, and the prisoner Christian.

Maren Blocks, who constantly from time to time sent me messages and kept me informed of what was going on, also intimated to me that she was of opinion that I could practise magic, for she wrote me a slip of paper[82] with the request that I should sow dissension between the Lady Carisse and an Alfelt, explaining at length that Alfelt was not worthy of her, but that Skinckel was a brave fellow (Carisse afterwards married Skinckel). As the letter was open, the coachman knew its contents, and the woman also. I was angry at it, but I said nothing. The woman could easily perceive that I was displeased at it, and she said, ‘Lady, I know well what Maren wishes.’ I replied, ‘Can you help her in it?’ ‘No,’ she declared, and laughed heartily. I asked what there was to laugh at. ‘I am laughing,’ said she, ‘because I am thinking of the clever Cathrine, of whom I have spoken before, who once gave advice to some one desiring to sow discord between good friends.’ I enquired what advice she had given. She said that they must collect some hairs in a place where two cats had been fighting, and throw these between the two men whom it was desired to set at variance. I enquired whether the trick succeeded. She replied, ‘It was not properly tried.’ ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘the cats were not both black?’ ‘Ho, ho!’ said she, ‘I see that you know how it should be done.’ ‘I have heard more than that,’ I replied; ‘show her the trick, and you will get some more sugar-candy, but do not let yourself be again cheated of it by Peder as you were lately. Seriously, however, Peder must beg Maren Blocks to spare me such requests!’ That she as well as Maren believed that I could practise magic was evident in many ways. My own remarks often gave cause for this. I remembered how my deceased lord used to say (when in his younger days he wished to make anyone imagine that he understood the black art), that people feared those of whom they had this opinion, and never ventured to do them harm. It happened one day at the mid-day meal, when the prison governor was sitting talking with me, that the woman carried on a long conversation on the stairs with the others respecting the witches who had been seized in Jutland, and that the supreme judge in Jutland at that time sided with the witches and said they were not witches.[E33] When the door was locked we had much talk about witches, and she said, ‘This judge is of your opinion, that it is a science and not magic.’ I said, as I had before said, that some had more knowledge than others, and that some used their knowledge to do evil; although it might happen naturally and not with the devil’s art, still it was not permitted in God’s Word to use nature for evil purposes; it was also not fair to give the devil the honour which did not belong to him. We talked on till she grew angry, laid down and slept a little, and thus the anger passed away.

Some days after she said: ‘Your maid is sitting below in the prison governor’s room, and asks with much solicitude after you and what you are doing. I have told Peder of what you have sewed, and of the ribbons you have made, but he has promised solemnly not to mention it to anyone except to Maren, Lars’ daughter; she would like so much to be here with you.’ I replied: ‘It would be no good for her to sit with me in prison; it would only destroy her own happiness; for who knows how long I may live?’ I related of this same waiting-maid that she had been in my employ since she was eight years old, all that I had had her taught, and how virtuous she was. To this she replied, ‘The girl will like to see what you have sewed; you shall have it again directly.’ I handed it to her, and the first time the doors were unlocked she gave it to the prison governor, who carried it to the Queen. (Two years afterwards the prison governor told me this himself, and that when the King had said, ‘She might have something given her to do,’ the Queen had answered, ‘That is not necessary. It is good enough for her! She has not wished for anything better.’) I often enquired for the piece of sewing, but was answered that Peder was not able to get it back from the girl.

Late in the autumn the prison governor began to sicken: he was ill and could not do much, so he let the coachman frequently come alone to lock and unlock both the doctor’s door below and mine. The iron bars were no longer placed before the outermost prison below, but four doors were locked upon me. One day, when Peder was locking up, he threw me a skein of silk,[83] saying, ‘Make me some braces for my breeches out of it.’ I appeared not to have heard, and asked the woman what it was that he had said. She repeated the same words. I behaved as if I did not believe it, and laughed, saying, ‘If I make the braces for him, he will next wish that you should fasten them to his breeches.’ A good deal of absurd chatter followed. As meal-time was approaching, I said to the woman, ‘Give Peder back his silk, and say that I have never before made a pair of braces; I do not know how they are made.’ (Such things I had to endure with smiles.)

At the time that our former palace here in the city (which we had ceded by a deed when we were imprisoned at Borringholm) was pulled down, and a pillar (or whatever it is) was raised to my lord’s shame, the prison governor came in when he unlocked at noon, and seated himself on my bed (I was somewhat indisposed at the time), and began to talk of former times (I knew already that they were pulling down the palace), enumerating everything the loss of which he thought might sadden me, even to my coach and the horses. ‘But,’ he said, ‘all this is nothing compared with the beautiful palace!’ (and he praised it to the utmost); ‘it is now down, and not one stone is left on another. Is not that a pity, my dear lady?’ I replied: ‘The King can do what he will with his own; the palace has not been ours for some time.’ He continued bewailing the beautiful house and the garden buildings which belonged to it. I asked him what had become of Solomon’s temple? Not a stone of that beautiful building was now to be found; not even could the place be pointed out where the temple and costly royal palace had once stood. He made no answer, hung his head, and pondered a little, and went out. I do not doubt he has reported what I said. Since that day he began to behave himself more and more courteously, saying even that His Majesty had ordered him to ask me whether I wished for anything from the kitchen, the cellar, or the confectioner, as it should be given me; that he had also been ordered to bring me twice a week confectionery and powdered sugar, which was done.[84] I begged the prison governor to thank the King’s Majesty for the favour shown me, and praised, as was proper, the King’s goodness most humbly. The prison governor would have liked to praise the Queen had he only been able to find cause for so doing; he said, ‘The Queen is also a dear Queen!’ I made no answer to this. He came also some time afterwards with an order from the King that I should ask for any clothes and linen I required: this was written down, and I received it later, except a corset, and that the Queen would not allow me. I never could learn the cause of this. The Queen also was not well pleased that I obtained a bottle-case with six small bottles, in which was sprinkling-water, headwater, and a cordial. All this, she said, I could well do without; but when she saw that in the lid there was an engraving representing the daughter of Herod with the head of St. John on a charger, she laughed and said, ‘That will be a cordial to her!’ This engraving set me thinking that Herodias had still sisters on earth.

The prison governor continued his politeness, and lent me at my desire a German Bible, saying at the same time, ‘This I do out of kindness, I have no order to do so; the Queen does not know it.’ ‘I believe that,’ I replied, and thanked him; but I am of opinion that the King knew it well. Some days afterwards Maren Blocks sent for her prayer-book back again. I had taught the woman a morning and evening prayer by heart, and all the morning and evening hymns, which she repeated to me night and morning. I offered to teach her to read if she would procure an A B C. She laughed at this jeeringly, and said, ‘People would think me crazed if I were to learn to read now.’ I tried to persuade her by argument, in order that I might thus get something to beguile the time with; but far from it; she knew as much as she needed. I sought everywhere for something to divert my thoughts, and as I perceived that the potter, when he had placed the stove, had left a piece of clay lying outside in the other room, I begged the woman to give it to me.

The prison governor saw that she had taken it, but did not ask the reason. I mixed the clay with beer, and made various things, which I frequently altered again into something else; among other things I made the portraits of the prison governor and the woman, and small jugs and vases. And as it occurred to me to try whether I were able to make anything on which I could place a few words to the King, so that the prison governor should not observe it (for I knew well that the woman did not always keep silence; she would probably some time say what I did), I moulded a goblet over the half of the glass in which wine was brought to me, made it round underneath, placed it on three knobs, and wrote the King’s name on the side—underneath the bottom these words ... il y a un ... un Auguste.[E34]

I kept it for a long time, not knowing in what way I could manage to get it reported what I was doing, since the woman had solemnly sworn to me not to mention it: so I said one day: ‘Does the prison governor ask you what I am doing?’ ‘Yes, indeed he does,’ she replied, ‘but I say that you are doing nothing but reading the Bible.’ I said: ‘You may ingratiate yourself in his favour and say that I am making portraits in clay; there is no reason that he should not know that.’ She did so, and three days after he came to me, and was quite gentle, and asked how I passed my time. I answered, ‘In reading the Bible.’ He expressed his opinion that I must weary of this. I said I liked at intervals to have something else to do, but that this was not allowed me. He enquired what I had wanted the clay for, which the woman had brought in to me; he had seen it when she had brought it in. I said, ‘I have made some small trifles.’ He requested to see them. So I showed him first the woman’s portrait; that pleased him much, as it resembled her; then a small jug, and last of all the goblet. He said at once: ‘I will take all this with me and let the King see it; you will perhaps thus obtain permission to have somewhat provided you for pastime,’[85] I was well satisfied. This took place at the mid-day meal. At supper he did not come in. The next day he said to me: ‘Well, my dear lady, you have nearly brought me into trouble!’ ‘How so?’ I asked. ‘I took the King a petition from you! the Queen did not catch sight of it, but the King saw it directly and said, “So you are now bringing me petitions from Leonora?” I shrank back with terror, and said, “Gracious King! I have brought nothing in writing!” “See here!” exclaimed the King, and he pointed out to me some French writing at the bottom of the goblet. The Queen asked why I had brought anything written that I did not understand. I asserted that I had paid no attention to it, and begged for pardon. The good King defended me, and the invention did not please him ill. Yes, yes, my dear lady! be assured that the King is a gracious sovereign to you, and if he were certain that your husband were dead, you would not remain here!’ I was of opinion that my enemies well knew that my husband was dead. I felt that I must therefore peacefully resign myself to the will of God and the King.

I received nothing which might have beguiled the time to me, except that which I procured secretly, and the prison governor has since then never enquired what I was doing, though he came in every evening and sat for some time talking with me; he was weak, and it was a labour to him to mount so many steps. Thus we got through the year together.

The prison governor gradually began to feel pity for me, and gave me a book which is very pretty, entitled ‘Wunderwerck.’[E35] It is a folio, rather old, and here and there torn; but I was well pleased with the gift. And as he sat long of an evening with me, frequently till nine o’clock, talking with me, the malicious woman was irritated.[86] She said to Peder, ‘If I were in the prison governor’s place, I would not trust her in the way he does. He is weak; what if she were now to run out and take the knife which is lying on the table outside, and were to stab him? She could easily take my life, so I sit in there with my life hanging on a thread.’

Absurd as the idea was, the knife was not only in consequence hidden under the table, but the prison governor for a long time did not venture to come to me, but sat outside by my outermost door and talked there just as long as before, so that I was no gainer.[87] (I did not know what the woman had said till three years afterwards, when it was mentioned by the prisoner Christian, who had heard the woman’s chatter.)

One day when the prison governor intended to go to the holy communion, he stood outside my outermost door and took off his hat, and begged for my forgiveness; he knew, he said, that he had done much to annoy me, but that he was a servant. I answered, ‘I forgive you gladly!’ Then he went away, and Peder closed the door. The woman said something to Peder about the prison governor, but I could not understand what. Probably she was blaming the prison governor, for she was so angry that she puffed; she could not restrain her anger, but said: ‘Fye upon the old fool! The devil take him! I ought to beg pardon too? No’ (she added with an oath), ‘I would not do it for God’s bitter death! No! no!’ and she spat on the ground. I said afterwards: ‘What does it matter to you that the prison governor asks me for my friendship? Do you lose anything by it? If you will not live like a Christian and according to the ordinances of the Church, do not at any rate be angry with one who does. Believe assuredly that God will punish you, if you do not repent of what evil you have done and will not be reconciled with your adversaries before you seek to be reconciled with God!’

She thought that he had done nothing else than what he was ordered to do. I said, ‘You good people know best yourselves what has been ordered you.’ She asked, ‘Do I do anything to you?’ I answered, ‘I know not what you do. You can tell any amount of untruths about me without my knowing it.’ Upon this she began a long story, swearing by and asserting her fidelity; she had never lied to anyone nor done anyone a wrong. I said: ‘I hear; you are justifying yourself with the Pharisee.’ She started furiously from her seat and said, ‘What! do you abuse me as a Pharisee?’ ‘Softly, softly!’ I said; ‘while only one of us is angry, it is of no consequence; but if I get angry also, something may come of it!’ She sat down with an insolent air, and said, ‘I should well imagine that you are not good when you are angry! It is said of you that in former days you could bear but little, and that you struck at once. But now’——(with this she was silent). ‘What more?’ I said. ‘Do you think I could not do anything to anyone if I chose, just as well as then, if anyone behaved to me in a manner that I could not endure? Now much more than then! You need not refuse me a knife because I may perhaps kill you; I could do so with my bare hands. I can strangle the strongest fellow with my bare hands, if I can seize him unawares, and what more could happen to me than is happening? Therefore only keep quiet!’

She was silent, and assumed no more airs; she was cast down, and did not venture to complain to the prison governor. What she said to the others on the stairs I know not, but when she came in, when the room was locked at night, she had been weeping.[88]

On Sunday at noon I congratulated[E36] the prison governor and said: ‘You are happy! You can reconcile yourself with God, and partake of His body and blood; this is denied to me (I had twice during two years requested spiritual consolation, but had received in answer that I could not sin as I was now in prison; that I did not require religious services). And as I talked upon this somewhat fully with the prison governor, I said that those who withheld from me the Lord’s Supper must take my sins upon themselves; that one sinned as much in thought as in word and deed; so the prison governor promised that he would never desist from desiring that a clergyman should come to me; and asked whom I wished for. I said: ‘The King’s Court preacher, whom I had in the beginning of my troubles.’ He said: ‘That could scarcely be.’ I was satisfied whoever it was.

A month afterwards I received the holy communion from the German clergyman, M. Hieronimus Buk, who behaved very properly the first time, but spoke more about the law than the gospel. The prison governor congratulated me, and I thanked him, for he had brought it about.

1665. In this year, on Whitsun-eve, the prison governor ordered May-trees to be placed in my inner prison, and also in the anteroom. I broke small twigs from the branches, rubbed off the bark with glass, softened them in water, laid them to press under a board, which was used for carrying away the dirt from the floor, and thus made them flat, then fastened them together and formed them into a weaver’s reed. Peder the coachman was then persuaded to give me a little coarse thread, which I used for a warp. I took the silk from the new silk stockings which they had given me, and made some broad ribbons of it (The implements and a part of the ribbons are still in my possession.) One of the trees (which was made of the thick end of a branch which Peder had cut off) was tied to the stove, and the other I fastened to my own person. The woman held the warp: she was satisfied, and I have no reason to think that she spoke about it, for the prison governor often lamented that I had nothing with which to beguile the time, and he knew well that this had been my delight in former times, &c.[89]

He remained now again a long time with me after meals, for his fear had passed away, or he had, perhaps, forgotten, as his memory began to fail him. He said then many things which he ought not. He declined perceptibly, and was very weak; he would remain afterwards sitting outside, reading aloud, and praying God to spare his life. ‘Yes,’ he would say, ‘only a few years!’ When he had some alleviation, he talked unceasingly. Creeping along the wall to the door, he said, ‘I should like to know two things: one is, who will be prison governor after me? The other is, who is to to have my Tyrelyre?’ (That was Tyre, his wife.) I replied: ‘That is a knowledge which you cannot obtain now, especially who will woo your wife. You might, perhaps, have already seen both, but at your age you may yet have long to live.’ ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘God grant it!’ and looked up to the window. ‘Do you think so, my dear lady?’ ‘Yes, I do,’ I replied. A few days afterwards, he begged me again to forgive him, if he had done me any wrong since the last time, for he wished to make reconciliation with God before he became weaker, and he wept and protested, saying, ‘It indeed grieves me still that I should have often annoyed you, and you comfort me.’ On Sunday at noon I congratulated him on his spiritual feast.

Thus he dragged on with great difficulty for about fourteen days, and as I heard that two men were obliged almost to carry him up the stairs, I sent him word that he might remain below on the ground floor of the tower, and that he might rest assured I would go nowhere. He thanked me, crawled up for the last time to my door, and said, ‘If I did that and the Queen heard of it, my head would answer for it.’ I said: ‘Then confess your weakness and remain in bed. It may be better again; another could meanwhile attend for you.’ He took off his cap in recognition of my advice, and bade me farewell. I have never seen him again since then. One day afterwards he crawled up in the tower-chamber, but came no farther.

A man of the name of Hans Balcke was appointed in his place to keep watch over the prisoners. He was very courteous. He was a cabinet-maker by trade; his father, who had also been a cabinet-maker, had worked a good deal for me in the days of my prosperity. This man had travelled for his trade both in Italy and Germany, and knew a little Italian. I found intercourse with him agreeable, and as he dined in the anteroom outside, in the tower, I begged him to dine with me, which he did for fourteen days. One day, when he carved the joint outside, I sent him word requesting him to come in. He excused himself, which appeared strange to me.

After he had dined, he said that Peder the coachman had jeered at him, and that he had been forbidden to dine with me. When he afterwards remained rather long with me talking, I begged him myself to go, so that this also might not be forbidden. He had on one occasion a large pin stuck in his sleeve, and I begged him for it. He said, ‘I may not give it you, but if you take it yourself, I can’t help it.’ So I took it, and it has often been of use to me. He gave me several books to read, and was in every way courteous and polite. His courtesy was probably the reason why the prisons were not long entrusted to him, for he was also very good to Doctor Sperling, giving him slices of the meat which came up to me, and other good food. In his childhood he had been a playfellow of the doctor’s children. He talked also occasionally a long time with the doctor, both on unlocking and locking his door, which did not please the servants.[90] The prison governor lay constantly in bed; he endeavoured as often as he could to come up again, but there was little prospect of it. So long as the keys were not taken from him, he was satisfied.